Long Juts Poems
Long Juts Poems. Below are the most popular long Juts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Juts poems by poem length and keyword.
A giddy grin escapes the persecutor of demise
A giddy smile comes from those who do not sign
They laugh at you when no ones around
They poke and play games without a sound
Keep it high and keep it down
Up and all around
Fake the way we laugh at you
Seeing ever so deeply,
Right through you
You can’t decide if it was fun
You can’t decide, maybe
It was just one
One and only, while lost and homely
Despicable and descript able,
Your ways are to me
Numbers all one through a hundred
A million more and a million less
The lesser shall make their tombs with ease
While seeking a dream that does no appease
To me, while we fight alone
On the battle field of hate
Poking and spitting on a carcass of meat
Seething right through,
To another date,
Of misery
Inside the diary,
We find devotion so true
Devotion so void,
And yet,
Un attuned
The smiles hide secrets deeper than meaning
While we seek for a world,
In utter de meaning
It plants a foot inside your doorway
And lends a hand to another way to foreplay
Rejoice in the fact that it has come to an end
Rejoice in the fact that we have no friends
Make a decision and you will always regret,
The way it comes and goes all around us
Make a world of tiny grains of sets
While lying to yourself about a heaven so blessed
Factory workers seek comfort in suicide
Growing old is just another name for dieing
Plant a flower for the world of today
And plant a tree juts to say,
Rebellion
Rebellion in the streets of chaos
Chaos is the sweet, sweet sound of rain
Thunders swift violently through the mindless
And our minds will swiftly decay,
By one piece to the next
And another to top the best
Soothing sounds have lost their pleasures
And a child has lost its sweater
Alone in the streets they will come for you
Picking you off two to one
Lies of a rose fallen in black
Signing your name to another death contract,
Yet in the same, your will blame…
More on us
And less to bless
Seek comfort in wisdom and pleasures
Seeking comfort in a dieing feather,
Burning away to lost decay
Just another day to play,
All for just one more day
Form:
Dark and the Light- or- The Goose and the Bride
Act 1
Sunlit promenade juts majestically into the musical pond, spying a Hen Goose appearing to
be sitting on her nest at the end of the popular walkway. I imagined the poor girl had no idea
the odds were stacked against her hatchlings ever glimpsing sunlight.
Act 2
Each day I walked in the park, she was still there, her mate just off-shore, only leaping up
to the promenade to help repel anyone daring to venture down the narrow walkway. In a
flash, she would leap off her nest honking, hissing and snapping at intruders. I watched this
scene unfold with disbelief for three and a half weeks….still she was on her
nest…..sometimes I would come across unsuspecting victims of her assault, muttering
epitaphs of a goosely nature.
Act 3
Halfway through the fourth week, I looked and she was gone, maybe, I thought, she was
successful and had moved with her goslings to the more rugged north-park area of the
winding pond. Not seeing her there, I asked my friend, the park manager, if he knew of her
conclusion. He told me he found her eggs smashed, and one time, came upon adults kicking
the Mother Goose… I borrowed a line from the Black Sox Scandal “say it ain’t so, Joe!”
Act 4
Shaking my head, I proceeded on the path towards the promenade up ahead…. there, on the
very spot where she defended her brood ‘till death, posed a wedding couple, bathed in
afternoon sunlight, he in crisp black, she in billowing white, bringing light to darkness…..
Bringing light
to
darkness
The mossy green lump juts invitingly
An overhanging face of vertical formation
Moist rocks often kissed by hovering clouds
The steep trek is overwhelmingly dangerous
Fearlessly she set out for the daunting climb
A pull that attracts goal-driven people like her
Precariously hanging on its edge is the spur
The most sought after accolade of excellence
Ascending, she saw the ruthless scramble
The zealously ambitious trampling the weak
The ravenously cold-hearted crushing the strong
The wickedly nefarious slaking their thirst for blood
She saw it all, unscathed, undeterred by the milieus
She even fought to save the others, take them with her
That slowed her down, pulling everyone she can
Saving their necks from the gallows awaiting below
Quenching their thirst with the water she should drink
Feeding their hunger from her lone piece of bread
Treating their wounds despite her bleeding hands
Genuinely exultant that they all reached the summit
In the stillness at the zenith, the view is dazzling
The whispering wind, willing the tired body to sleep
Yet the cape must be worn, the ruler must be crowned
The frantic scuttle resumed as all dived for the goal
At the cliff’s edge, from the wet grass she slipped
Catching a protruding rock in time before the smash
Gripped by intense fear, not of losing but of dying
Beneath awaits the jagged valley of certain death
Looking up from the haze, she saw familiar faces
Gazing down at her; the then grateful, now unfeeling
Conspiring to ruin a rival just to reach their dream
The thankless lot twice deceitful than the enemy
Offering to reach seemingly to pull her from safety
Only to let go, fearful to equally perish from her grasp
Turning their pull into shove and into a mocking push
As she hangs for dear life, she realized her worth
She deserve to be alive more than these people
She should preserve herself for her own good
She now understands the world of the brutes
As gravity pulls, she falls, but she floats…
A broad vale next to Lake Champlain,
early morning, before the heat,
barbed wire fence next to a field
where John Arnold’s sheep are grazing.
Tall grass is hiding most of them,
white humps moseying about there,
their heads poke up as there chewing.
Arnold’s House is there on my right,
old Victorian, last century,
nice place, but a little faded,
John has put off fixing it up,
wool prices were not great last year.
I’m not sure I want him to paint,
kinda fits in better this way.
A foothill juts out the next stretch,
small cliffs rise up above the road,
soft, crumbly rock interrupted
by tenacious trees with clinging roots
casting shadows over the pavement.
Way up high is an overlook,
local trail, popular day hike,
been up there a half-dozen times,
looks west to the Adirondacks,
across the long, thin stretch of lake.
It’s too hot to hike it today,
better in leaf season anyhow.
Stock car race-track on my left,
they run Friday and Saturday,
big white trailers are pulling in,
tonight’s competitors arriving,
it’s too early for spectators.
Fun watching them spin rubber through dirt,
and the local children love it,
I guess the fathers do as well,
or maybe the hots dogs and beer.
The beer is cheap, run-of-the-mill,
but those hot gods are really good.
I wonder where they’re buying them?
Two-mile mark, a broad wetland,
marshy ground, cattails and beaver dams,
tall grasses poking form water,
a swarm of annoying insects,
attracts dozens of pleasant birds,
each marked with their own fine color.
People fish here in the summer,
like to hunt ducks in the autumn.
Easy to imagine nothing’s changed,
that it’s just like primeval days,
but a collapsed barn in the woods
tells the truth of its history,
That this was once a farmer’s field,
it only became a swamp when
the beavers were reintroduced,
probably fifty years back now.
Nature likes to remake itself.
Well, my legs are starting to hurt,
time to start heading back now.
"Complex Of Swerves"
When one has a tender heart
And a heart real and true,
Being among fake, callous hearts,
Is a difficult thing to do.
When one has a giving heart
And so, gives generously,
Being among the predators,
Is a dangerous place to be.
When one has a caring heart
With empathy and compassion,
They get treated like those who,
The opposite, keep in fashion.
When one has an honest heart,
Where truth reigns supreme,
The liars spin their lies as truth,
Make the honest like liars, seem.
When one has a humble heart
And choose to put others first,
Attention grabbers take advantage,
Steal recognition even if unversed.
Is it any wonder why so many then will choose
As their path of life, the one traveled most,
Where character of quality one cares not if they lose,
Settle for mediocrity, as their lesser on, they coast?
To cultivate integrity in the present world,
With all the traits of human blackness being shown,
Is an act of bravery when all that's being hurled
Is the vileness of humanity so many seem to hone.
It's rough to be a person genuine and sincere;
Choosing to be honest and mean what you say,
When all you'll get is categorized with a sneer
Among those superficial as their chosen way.
Staying on the right path takes a whole lot of guts;
Requires determination, based on values all but lost.
It's a maze lined every which way with many toxic juts;
With quicksand awaiting where sinfulness is glossed.
All the human vultures and the wolves dressed as sheep
Around every twist and bend, in hollows and in curves,
Lurking, ready, waiting for another soul to reap
Makes survival in this world a Complex Of Swerves.
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2018-06-08 06:10:00 (EDT)
All rights reserved.
Analysed
In pieces,
A broken mirror
Splinters of reflection leering at the sky,
Dry and lifeless,
Gasping, drowning in a dingy flood
A river, a tempest, a storm
Forlorn.
'You are the fragile one' she told me,
you smiled and clutched my hand.
'You are the fragile one' she said,
I smiled as you clutched my hand,
Did you understand?
Fragile?
Me?
Yes but in what sense?
Glass is fragile, and so is crystal,
Porcelain too and so are you.
Was it not you that cried,
Was it not I that died, inside.
I tried, God knows I tried,
I tried to be there for you and us and her,
Unsustainable, improbable
So sad inside,
So black, so oppressive
Nowhere to hide
From the beast within.
But remember Niagara?
You chased squirrels through the lens,
In a sense, we were happy then,
Juts you, just me.
I remember the garden, I always will
The rings at our fingers,
Were a light burden then,
The flame wreathed eye
As yet unaware of our meagre presence.
I miss you and what we were or could have been,
I see it in her eyes, the last shreds
What little remains.
I can almost here you laughing still,
When your laughter was that of a girl
And the woman in you was but
a butterfly drunk on pollen and sky,
why?
Why did it have to be this way?
Was it all my doing?
Was it me to kill the light of you?
Was it my darkness that thrust you into shadow?
I cannot say, I do not know,
but I feel it to be so.
And that hurts,
And it is worst when I see her,
So happy, so free,
So much of you, in her,
So much of me.
Afraid.
She might become too much like me
Or too much like you,
Ideally let her be like us,
The better part of us and what we once were,
The better part of me, the better part of you,
In her.
Carlos
Down this once famous graveled road
I drive by day and drive by night
my mind replaying stories of times past.
As if thinking about them
can make them real again.
Buildings standing with new faces, signs.
I see them now only as they once were
in my childlike memory, mind.
Each corner sparks a lost thought.
Transparent faces of townies crossing cross streets
a blur of long gone friends and schemes
living only in my most selfish dreams.
The Devon Horse Show grounds
where the Main Line's best show off
at its annual celebrated competition.
Villanova University where I honed my hoopster skills
a high-schooler sneaking into the gym on snowy days.
The Bouquet Flower Shop where I summer jobbed.
The Bryn Mawr Deli where I waitered posing for
giggling girls of crosstown Harcum College.
"Good Counsel" church, my reverent gothic fortress
for those important beliefs that later would fall away.
The Bryn Mawr Trust Bank that juts out proudly
on the main corner, a gray stoned prominence
where accounting of my money's worth was kept.
It too a dream. A dream of a future now lived.
Sepia shadows of decades ago.
A feeling of loss wells up within me
of time I want back again.
To right lost wrongs. To try again somehow.
Sometimes I turn away so not to remember.
But I have no way of getting there.
Street after street, ghost after ghost
looking down alleys and ways
in my haunting trance.
So many visions with no redeeming consequences.
Simple reminiscences of my time, my simple life
and this once famous graveled road.
It juts out by the river road,
traffic passes it each morn,
what’s left of the old aqueduct,
something stately, yet still forlorn.
The rock, with no mortar, was set
so fine it would make Incas proud,
precise enough to still hold up
today, and centuries from now.
There’s a display with a picture
of how it looked in days of old,
twenty arches spanned the river,
hand-built by men flinty and bold.
On it ran the Erie Canal,
crossing the rough Mohawk below,
on barges towed by stubborn mules,
the trips were long, steady, and slow.
This once helped open the Midwest
to settlers, to goods and trade,
but that’s a different country now,
and long ago such things did fade.
The roads and rails brought prices down,
and moved much quicker than a mule,
they went and dammed the river up,
much wider than some man-made pool.
That fact, alas, would be its end,
the arches blocked the way of boats,
and in the winter jammed the ice,
so floods onto spring banks would flow.
They blew up all the arches grand,
only those by the shore remain,
buried half of that great canal,
now barely known, save for the name.
Those who still use the aqueduct
are kids leaping into the drink,
someday they’ll try to shut that down,
claiming that it’s a ‘safety thing.’
And the arches that look just like
something made back in ancient Rome,
will be like all great things men built,
reduced to naught but broken stone.
Oh! towering revelation spires center of it's eye;
Amber bright white yellow beams of light shine;
As morning just dawn;
Waves of the sea horizontal
As the skies meets the water land
Lighthouse beacons
Wind kisses it's breeze;
Such a tease;
Somberly clouds look down;
As the beacon sounds;
Lighthouse beacons
As the skies, grounds, sea meets'
Brilliant light beckons, shines long strong and bright;
Shows the boats and ships their way;
Towering height and distance from focal plane;
Lighthouse beacons
Light stand reconocianse promontory;
Graphic horizontal lines natural elevation inventory;
Ship on waters sails;
To no avail;
Rocky spikes that juts out into the seas;
Lighthouse a safeguard to those on waters in need;
12/22/18
For Lighthouse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls